


Die on Every Hill

by bendingwind, coffeesuperhero, leiascully, sabinelagrande



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingwind/pseuds/bendingwind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero, https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Cassandra never knows when to stop.  Every hill is a hill to die on (mostly metaphorically).





	1. Chapter by leiascully

"You're doing it wrong," Cassandra declares.

"Excuse me?" Varric says. 

"You're doing it wrong," Cassandra repeats.

"I think I know how to sharpen a dagger," Varric says. 

"I am not certain you do," Cassandra tells him. "You must use firm strokes."

"My strokes are plenty firm," Varric says. "I've had a lot of practice." 

She makes a disgusted noise. "Of course you have."

He grins at her. "Now that we're agreed, I'll thank you to go off and scold the troops instead of me."

"But you're doing it _wrong_ ," she says. "I cannot allow you to spoil a dagger like that."

"First of all," Varric says, "this dagger is backup, in case somebody shatters Bianca or some equally catastrophic event." He waves it in the air to demonstrate. "Second of all, I'm very capable of sharpening my own backup dagger, thank you very much, Seeker Pentaghast."

"It seems not," she says, and he rolls his eyes.

"I've been sharpening my own daggers for a long time," he says, "and that's not a euphemism. I think I'm pretty capable of handling this on my own."

"You should use a summer stone," Cassandra insists. "And firm strokes."

"There's nothing wrong with a whetstone made of serpentstone," he says. "And to reiterate, my strokes are extremely firm. Can't you ever let anyone do things their own way?"

"Not when it's the wrong way," she says. "Serpentstone is too smooth. It does not provide an edge the way summer stone does." 

"Maker preserve us," Varric swears under his breath.

"I will show you," she says, and stomps away. 

Varric just keeps sharpening his dagger, the wrong way, determinedly indifferent to anyone who observed this particular altercation. It isn't as if cutting words exchanged between him and the Seeker is anything new to anyone in the Inquisition. 

"All right, Varric?" says the Inquisitor, wandering past accidentally-on-purpose.

"Fine, fine, everything's fine," he says.

"I heard you and Cassandra had a fight," she says, crossing her arms and looking amused. For a savior, she's got an awfully smug expression.

"When are Cassandra and I not having a fight?" he says. 

"Fair point," says the Inquisitor. "Let me know if I need to intervene again."

"I can defend myself," Varric says.

The Inquisitor laughs. "No," she says, "you can't. Nobody can when it comes to Cassandra."

"I wish you weren't right," he grumbles under his breath. 

"I'm sure I'll know if you need me," the Inquisitor says with a grin, and she wanders away. "I'll just follow the shouting."

Varric just grunts. 

Cassandra comes marching back with a dagger in one hand and a whetstone in the other. Summer stone, of course. She sits down next to Varric - too close, in his opinion - and slides the blade over the stone so that it rings obnoxiously loudly. 

"This is how you sharpen a dagger," she says. 

"Is it really that important to you?" Varric asks. "If I live or die, it's on my head."

"It is very important to me!" she says loudly. "You are an important member of the Inquisition, and your dagger should be sharpened appropriately." 

"I've got some other things you could sharpen appropriately," he says in a low voice.

"I am certain I could put a fine edge on anything you chose," she says archly. "Appropriate or inappropriate." 

"Was that a come-on, Seeker?" he asks. 

"It was merely an observation," she says. 

He goes pulls out a second dagger and sharpens it poorly on purpose, pointedly spoiling the edge of it. Cassandra pretends not to be watching, but eventually she can't stand it any longer, as he drags the blade against the stone and makes a particularly obnoxious shrieking noise that sets his own teeth on edge. 

"You cannot," she says inarticulately, and wraps her arms around him. This is so much the opposite of what he assumed would happen that Varric can't even react. He just freezes. The metal breasts of her armor press against his back. She takes the serpentstone from his hand and replaces it with the summer stone, cupping her hands over his. Her fingers lace into the spaces between his, which feels shockingly intimate for no reason at all, and she guides his hands as she strokes the dagger blade across the whetstone. Firmly, of course. 

"Like this," she says from just behind his ear. Her cheek is pressed to his hair. Her arms are strong around him like the metal bands of a cask. Varric is simultaneously furious and aroused, which is probably a common response to Cassandra. 

"Firmly," she says, her lips tickling his ear. "You must stroke firmly." She moves the hand that holds the dagger and guides his other thumb across the summer stone. "Feel the texture of it." 

"I feel it," he says reluctantly. The pressure of, well, all of her against him is a more than a little distracting. Her thighs are splayed against the outsides of his, squeezing inward as she concentrates. 

"This is how you put an edge on a blade," she murmurs. "This is how you hone a dagger until it will slice a demon to its core. A well-honed blade will be your salvation on the battlefield."

"I'm not an ingenue," he grumbles. "I know what I'm doing."

"Evidently not," she says tartly. 

"I didn't think you had that much regard for my life, Seeker," he says.

"You underestimate me, Varric," she says. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says, "maybe it was the whole interrogation thing, where you almost stabbed a knife into my balls."

"You know I had to," she says. 

"You didn't, but I understand that you feel you did." And he does, somehow. Cassandra is always true to herself. He tries to decide how he feels about being wrapped up in Cassandra's embrace, relatively speaking. Overall, it's pretty fucking amazing, but also terrifying. To be fair, that's a combination he really enjoys, but it's causing some cognitive dissonance. With Bianca, it's a thrill, but this is Cassandra. She's tortured him, essentially. He shouldn't be enjoying this. And yet, there's a large part of him that wishing she'd press harder against him, or maybe nip at his neck. That would put an edge on his blade, so to speak.

"There," she says with satisfaction. "It is done."

"Is it?" he asks, leaning surreptitiously back against her. The breastplate of her armor makes his back arch as he lays his head on her shoulder. If she asks, he'll pretend he can't hear her well enough. 

"Can't you tell?" she asks, and touches the tip of the dagger to his thumb. Blood wells up immediately.

"You should ask a person before you start with the bloodplay, Seeker," he says, putting his thumb in his mouth. "This isn't Tevinter."

"I apologize," she says, sounding less than penitent, "but now you know. If it doesn't hurt to draw blood, you've succeeded."

"You and I have very different versions of success," he tells her, shifting as far from her as he can, which is not very far. At least he isn't leaning on her anymore. 

"That is patently obvious," she says. For a long moment she's silent, arms still around him, their hands still gripping the hilt of his dagger and her superior whetstone. 

"Varric," she says.

"Cassandra," he says, and he so rarely calls her by her name that he shivers. 

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For correcting my more-than-adequate sharpening skills?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Never for that. You deserve a dagger that does what it's meant to do. But for the rest of it." She sighs. "Hawke is his own man. I cannot blame you if he comes or goes."

"You're damn right," Varric says, and then relents. "I could have told you."

"You were right not to," she says. "If the Maker intended him to come on his own, he would have come. It is too much to put on one man."

"The Inquisitor hasn't done badly," Varric says.

"No, I'm very proud of her," Cassandra muses. "She is a woman after my own heart."

"Well, don't let me stop you," Varric says. "My dagger is sharp now. Your dwarven duties can be checked off the list."

"Not like that," she says with a snort. "I can find someone impressive without trying to seduce them, unlike some." 

"I don't know who you're talking about," Varric says. "Perhaps you were thinking of Dorian?"

"That smooth talker," she says scornfully, but Varric knows her well enough to hear the note of affection in her voice. 

"Not everyone is as repressed as you, Seeker," he says.

"I'm not!" she protests. "Just because I don't choose to share my business with all of Thedas doesn't mean I'm repressed."

"If you say so," he says in a tone designed to get under her skin. 

She mutters to herself. "At least now you know that summer stone will hone a blade better than serpentstone."

"Yes, thank you very much, I look forward to slicing my finger off and not even feeling it," Varric says, but when she slides back and releases him, he does feel bereft. Her grip on him was so firm. There was some sort of comfort in it. He doesn't want to analyze it too much. She did, after all, sort of threaten to stab him in the balls, and no verbal apology is enough to make up for that.

"Good day, Varric," she says, with a stiff little bow that's more of a nod. 

"Good day, Seeker," he says. She walks away and he sheaths his dagger with a satisfying thunk, watching the way her hips sway. Incongruous, given her usual asceticism, but an enjoyable view nonetheless.

"The wrong way to sharpen a dagger," he mutters to himself, shaking his head. "She doesn't let anything go, does she?"

He knows the answer to that already.


	2. Chapter 2

Bull looks up from his bread at the sound of a commotion from one of the tents. He can't quite make out what's being said, though it's being said at a high volume; it's definitely Cassandra, who is managing to both bellow and screech in the same sentence. It's really kind of impressive.

After a good minute or two of this, Varric emerges from the tent, backing out slowly with both hands raised. When the tent flap closes, separating him from Cassandra, his shoulders slump and he sighs heavily.

"What was that about?" Bull asks, before finishing his piece of bread and wiping his hands on his pants.

"Creative differences," Varric says wryly. "She's in there getting angry about my writing."

"Kill somebody off you shouldn't have?" Bull says.

"Not in this installment," Varric says. "It, ah, actually is my fault this time, not the readers'."

"How so?" Bull asks.

"I got stuck in the middle of a scene," Varric says. "It was a late night, and I just wanted to finish the damn thing. So maybe I wrote something I'm not proud of and forgot to change it, and it slipped through to publication."

"You know I have to know now that you've said that, right?" Bull says.

"Oh, I'm aware," Varric says. "I set myself up for it, but I deserve all my shame this time."

"Come on, what was it?" Bull pushes.

"For context, this was towards the end of a sex scene, which is not my forte to start with," Varric prefaces.

Bull leans forward, a look of delight on his face.

Varric sighs deeply. "I wrote something to the effect of, 'He exploded, filling every crevice with jets of pleasure, gushing like explosive shot.'"

Bull says nothing for a long moment, then bursts out laughing, loudly and heartily enough that a bird is startled out of a nearby tree.

"Get it all out," Varric grumbles.

Bull laughs so hard that he has to wipe tears out of his eyes. He smacks a hand against his good leg, chortling until he's almost out of breath.

"Oh, fuck," Bull says, when he finally calms down. "Fuck, that's the worst thing I've ever heard."

"It was not my finest hour," Varric says.

"I see why Cassandra's not happy," Bull says.

"I don't blame her for it," Varric says.

"There are so many things you could have written, and you wrote _that_ ," Bull says, which sets him laughing again. "It doesn't even make any sense."

"I realize that now," Varric says. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions for the second edition? You strike me as a connoisseur of bawdy language."

"Just about anything I say would have been better," Bull says. "Came. Shot. Arrived. Finished."

"That's too far in the other direction," Varric says. "No romance at all."

"The Orlesians call it the little death," Bull offers.

"If I made that up for a book, I'd get eviscerated," Varric says. "What about Qunlat? The Qunari are quick with a pithy phrase."

"Araata-adan," Bull replies. "It doesn't translate well."

"I feel like I hear that about every Qunlat phrase," Varric says.

"Something like 'the passage opens' would be close," Bull says.

"I have so many things to say about that," Varric says.

"I've heard 'em all," Bull responds.

"Really?" Varric says. "Because I could come up with some stunners."

"You already did," Bull says. "In the worst way."

The tent flap doesn't exactly slam open, but only because it's a tent flap; it has an equivalent force behind it as it slaps against the tent, flung to the side. Cassandra strides out, still holding Varric's book. She looks like she's about to say something, and Varric tenses up.

Cassandra makes an inarticulate noise of rage and slams back into the tent.

"It'll blow over," Varric says.

"I wouldn't count on it," Bull says. "You're gonna be making this one up to her somehow."

Varric taps his fingers on his knee. "I have an idea."

\--

It's a week later before Varric knocks on Cassandra's door. Cassandra's face when she answers speaks volumes; her expression is neutral for a moment before going sour once she sees who it is.

"I brought you this errata as a peace offering," Varric says, holding out a sheath of papers.

Cassandra takes them and gives Varric a hard look. "This had better be good, dwarf."

"I wouldn't write bespoke pornography for just anyone," Varric says. "My usual response to critics is to tell them to go fuck themselves."

"You will not find me so easily dismissed," she says.

"That may be the first thing I ever learned about you," he replies. "When you choose your ground, you defend it to the death."

"Thank you," Cassandra says.

Varric turns away from her, giving her a wave. "Give it a shot. I promise no more tortured metaphors about ejaculation."

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust, and Varric hears the door shut as he walks off.

Varric doesn't hear back about it for several days; he'd like to say he forgets about it, but it's there in the back of his mind. He's a little concerned that she may inflict actual physical violence if she doesn't like it, whether upon the pages or upon him.

But he's in his accustomed spot, considering ideas for his inevitable book about the Inquisition, when Cassandra approaches him. She looks less dour than she usually does, and Varric hopes it's the look of a happy reader.

"Seeker," he says amiably. "Something I can help you with?"

"I read your correction," Cassandra says, color high on her cheeks.

"I hope it suited your taste this time," Varric says.

She lets out a sigh that sounds positively dreamy. "It was _wonderful_."

Varric preens a little bit, but it can't be helped. "I like to think it's more representative of my skills."

"Is it?" Cassandra says, and something about her voice is off; it's enough that Varric knows he's missing something but not enough to tell him what it is.

"I might write trashy books, but I still care about my performance," he says.

She blushes more. "Your performance is generally satisfactory, is it not?"

"As long as it satisfies you, I think it's okay," Varric says, which is the truth but more than he should probably say; Cassandra is the kind of devout reader that Varric both takes for granted and desperately wants the approval of.

"I must go," Cassandra says sharply, and he thinks she sounds embarrassed, though he doesn't know why.

"Keep the new pages," Varric says.

She looks offended. "I would not dream of giving them away."

Cassandra walks off, and Varric watches her go, grinning to himself. And then suddenly it hits him, what was off about their conversation. He runs it back in his head, seeing what he missed, and his eyes widen.

He sprints after her, having no other choice given his short dwarven legs. "Seeker!" he calls, and Cassandra turns around, looking puzzled.

"What is it?" she says.

"Were you flirting with me?" he asks, skidding to a stop in front of her.

Cassandra's face goes white. "Of course not," she says.

"You _were_ ," Varric marvels. "And with some well-chosen bad innuendo." He almost feels bad about chasing after her, because even though no one else has been around to see this exchange, she looks mortified. "You can admit it. I'm not going to tell."

"I don't believe that," she says.

He doesn't answer that charge, because honestly, he hasn't decided whether he's going to tell or not. Sparkler would get a massive kick out of it. "I just can't figure out why you of all people would be flirting with me."

Cassandra looks like she's going to snap at him, but then she breaks. "No one could write such words without a heart to match them," she says, a little starry-eyed. "The perfection of each chosen phrase speaks volumes. They are not merely written, they are _believed._ "

The pure conviction of her voice strikes him in a way he wasn't expecting. It makes him think it through again, the process of writing and what he was trying to accomplish. This passage was a labor of love, more so than anything he's written in a long while, and Cassandra's reception of it makes him wonder if he was trying to prove himself this whole time. Maybe she's right; maybe he wouldn't go to these lengths for anyone else for a reason.

Varric is still processing Cassandra's words when she swoops down and impulsively kisses him on the forehead. He's too shocked to do anything about it; it would be nothing from someone else, but coming from Cassandra, it might as well be a love letter nailed up for all to see.

"I look forward to your next work," she says.

"So do I," Varric replies, still a little dazed.

Cassandra takes her leave, then, and Varric almost wants to call her back, though he has nothing more to say. He needs to reshuffle some things, get his mind back in order.

Instead he picks up his pen. The stories won't write themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

“Varric,” a familiar voice says from the doorway. He probably shouldn’t be surprised but also he kind of wants to throw a book at the Seeker standing there.

“Varric,” Cassandra says again, and he realizes that she sounds… hesitant.

It just makes him want to throw the book more. Instead he tucks his shoulders in further and stares into the fire in the hopes that if he just looks hard enough, she will _go away_.

He hears the door close, and for a moment -- but then he hears the quiet clink and whisper of her armor, and he realizes that she has just let herself into his room. Before he can decide whether to keep ignoring her or to tell her she can fuck right off, she’s sitting on the bed next to him, and that’s just-- that’s just--

“I am sorry about Hawke, Varric,” she says, and he snorts. He isn’t ready to fake a laugh, not about that. Not about Hawke.

“Reason I didn’t tell you where he was,” Varric says. Maybe he’s had a bit of whisky, and some ale. And some wine.

“I… I understand,” Cassandra says, and the words even _sound_ choked by her reluctance to admit she has been wrong. “I thought he would be enough to save us. I was not wrong - but then, he was not my friend, and it was no hardship to me, to ask him to risk everything.”

Varric grunts, and shifts farther away from her on the bed.

There is a long silence. He can see, from the corner of his eye, that she is unsure how to proceed; she twists her fingers and fidgets in the way he has seen her do only when she is very nervous.

“I am sorry he is gone,” she says, at last. “I want you to know that-- that it is not your fault, Varric. I was the one who insisted he must be found and brought to join us, and he-- he chose, for himself, to make the sacrifice necessary to save the rest of us.”

Varric realizes that he’s been tugging at a button so much he’s pulled it loose; he scowls and tosses it across the room, scowls harder when it bounces off a clay jar of ale and into the fire.

She continues, more insistent now in the face of his silence. 

“You could not have known that Corypheus survived your encounter. You could not have known what he was. No one could have foreseen this. You must not blame yourself.”

“What would you know about it?” he snarls, before he can think better of it. Always a shit idea, engaging the Seeker in a battle of words. She’s too damn stubborn to be bested even by his silver tongue.

For a long moment, Cassandra does not reply.

“The Inquisitor was concerned about you, and I--” she pauses again, and he turns just in time to catch sight of the way her brows draw together and her mouth sets itself in a stubborn line of determination. “I was worried, also. I have lost many friends, and it is-- it is--”

“It’s shit,” Varric interrupts, and Cassandra releases a sound that is perhaps a broken laugh or a huff of despair or a snort of dismissal.

“Yes,” she agrees, but her voice is quiet and sad. 

“Hawke is hardly the first person I’ve lost,” Varric says, his tone perhaps more acidic than is politic. “First I’ve led straight to the slaughter, though.”

“And I have told you, it is not your fault,” Cassandra insists.

Except for the part where Varric had catapulted Hawke into renown and wealth, brought him to the attention of mages and templars and tossed him on the tinder that was the Gallows like a goddamn fireball.

Except for the part where he had led Hawke straight to Corypheus’ doorstep, ensured that the monstrous magister of old would be released into the world, and walked away and left Corypheus to break the fucking world.

Except for the part where Hawke, Hawke who had survived blood mages and batshit templars and the general fucking mess of Kirkwall, except for the part where Hawke was dead because Varric had asked for his help once again.

“Not so sure about that,” he says, after a pause far too long not to be awkward.

“Bullshit,” Cassandra says, “As easy to say that the fault was mine, or Leliana’s, or that it was the fault of Divine Justinia. Perhaps it was. It must not be forgotten, though, that Hawke was his own man, and that he made his own decisions. That his decisions overcame your efforts to protect him does not leave you with the blame for his fate, Varric.”

It really sort of does, though, as far as Varric is concerned.

Finally, with a sigh that feels like it drains his lungs and this knot of rage-hope-fear-regret that’s taken up residence in his sternum, he stands and pours himself another whisky, and then a second for the Seeker. He shoves it at her with a grunt, expecting her to set it aside politely at best, but instead she drains the glass.

“I blamed you for a while,” he says at last. “You did have me kidnapped and stabbed a book right in front of my nose while you were interrogating me, after all. But then I remembered that if I hadn’t pegged him as just the kind of Ferelden refugee who might be dumb enough to take on Darkspawn and partner with my brother, none of us would be here right now, and I know it’s not fair to blame anyone but myself.”

“I have told you already that I do not believe you to be at fault,” Cassandra says, slowly and with stubborness audibly settling into her words. “I cannot force you to believe me.”

“No, you can’t,” Varric says, and downs what remains of his whisky.

After a time, Cassandra reaches over and settles a hand over his own.

“I _am_ sorry, Varric,” she says, and she stands as if to leave, but at the door she pauses.

“I know you do not often attend services at the Chantry,” she says, “but I believe that you have faith in the Maker and his bride Andraste. If you will not listen to me, perhaps you will listen to her words:

_“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade_  
_For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light_  
_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”_

With a quiet click, the door shuts behind her.


End file.
